


Bespoke

by wanda von dunayev (wandavon)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Graphic Violent Fantasies, Not Safe or Sane and Only Somewhat Consensual, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Sadism, Under-negotiated Kink, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/pseuds/wanda%20von%20dunayev
Summary: Heartbroken over his failure to acquire a coveted Arsène Vasseur jacket, Sibbi vents his frustrations on his date.
Relationships: Sibbi Black-Briar/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	Bespoke

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [borichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borichu/pseuds/borichu) for the beta!

“You have anything to say to me?” Sibbi asked. In front of him, shackled to the wall and spread like a meal for his exclusive consumption, Sister Asleigr clenched her jaw. “Ready to take back your insinuations about my sense of fashion, for example?”

Sibbi had appropriated an unused part of the Whiterun dungeons for their use—Mother had taught him well the power of a bribe—and the night glowed through small grilled windows high above them. It must have been well into the smallest hours, but the sun spilled wan light in bars that fell across the floor and Asleigr’s shoulders.

White nights, Sibbi thought, and dark pleasures.

He’d hiked her dress around her waist, the layers of skirt twisted, torn in places, a few loose tendrils clinging to her skin from sweat (hers) and come (his). Her upper thighs gleamed wetly, and he wanted to press his lips and teeth into her like some plush, exotic fruit.

But that would have to wait; the rod lay against her cunt, in his way. First her lesson, then his enjoyment.

Patience. Mother always said he needed patience. She probably didn’t intend for him to learn it like this, but she’d also never specified that his lessons had to be unpleasant.

As he watched Asleigr—shaking, struggling to stay upright so that the manacles didn’t cut into her wrists, the muscles shifting under her skin with each futile jerk—she tossed her head so strands of her hair caught on the rough stone. Coarse as a horse’s, he knew from the times when he, too, had caught it and wrapped a hank around his hand like reins.

That would also have to wait, though he imagined he felt it on his palm already, a teasing, tickling ghost.

The shackles on the wall interested him more. He and Asleigr were making excellent use of those.

“‘You,’” he prompted, nodding encouragement though she hadn’t started speaking. “Start there. ‘You…” He waited for her to pick up the word, and when she didn’t, he continued, “’Have… great… clothes… Sibbi.’”

“Fuck you.” Her voice was almost gone, and her throat moved spasmodically after she said it. A tremor shook her, and her thighs tensed again. He wanted to run his tongue up the inside hollow of one, tasting her and torturing her. “I didn’t insult you. You’re crazy.”

The bodice of her gown was half undone and tugged down so that her tits rose above it, her nipples flushed dark and swollen. He’d twisted and pinched them earlier as he fucked her, and then, later, bitten them as hard as he could without drawing blood. His teeth marks spanned her skin like constellations.

Now he ran a nail over one nipple, a whisper of a touch, but she flinched and drew back, tossing her head so that her dark hair fell across her shoulders.

“I can’t! Please!” The words cracked, which amused him. One of Kyne’s (theoretical) faithful, her voice worn away by screaming.

“Say it. I’ll stop. I promised you.” He said it tenderly, a counterpoint to the way he pulled a nipple between his nails. “Say it, and we can finish this.”

She said nothing, and he twisted again, slowly increasing the pressure until she whimpered. Her hips rolled against the wall in jerks, her breathing losing its coherence. Her entire body moved in twitches and trembles like a scared rabbit. He kept up the pressure, pulling harder, waiting to see when her pleasure dissolved into pain.

When she closed her eyes this time, her groan was agonized. “No,” she said, choking on the word. “I can’t.”

He released her and stepped back, fascinated with the way she fought, vainly, to escape the sensations from the rod. Her gestures lost their rhythm, turning to shudders.

This time as she came she didn’t scream, just gave a sort of high-pitched, animal keen: miserable and desperate, no pleasure, all suffering. The air smelled of her, and he felt the pulsing heat of her cunt even fully clothed and a foot’s length away.

Certainly he felt the vibrations of the Dwemer rod between them, a buzz that reminded him of Riften’s hives. It hissed against his pants, enough to make his cock tingle and twitch. He’d tied the rod to her thigh—a nice bit of ropework he’d picked up in less pleasant pastimes than these—so that its flat mushroom head was in unavoidable contact with her clit.

That rod was maybe his favourite possession. When Mother had forced him to visit Markarth five years back he’d seen it propped against a smelter and taken it, praying it was critical to the safe functioning of the mining equipment so the entire city would be blown sky-high, vaporising both the Silver-Blood brothers but _not_ Betrid, who would be traumatized by seeing her husband reduced to a bloody mist and need to be sexually comforted by Sibbi.

Unfortunately, none of that had happened. But the rod did vibrate, and Asleigr fucking hated it.

“Turn it off.” Her eyes were glossy with tears, and she sucked in a harsh breath between her teeth. She still shifted from side to side as if she could free herself, and he watched, his cock throbbing, as the lean line of her body curled and writhed like a flower opening. She must have realised it was pointless by now—pointless to squirm _and_ to beg. “No more.”

That begging was nothing new. He hadn’t expected it would take much to get her there, and he’d been right. For all her pretenses of purity, for all her breeding and snobbish affectations, Asleigr was true Riften sewer scum, formed by the gods to be fucked by men like Sibbi. Unable to resist even the lightest temptation, the proof that Kyne really had formed them from wind.

“You know what you have to say.” She looked so beautiful and wretched, so pained and so undone with her expensive clothes mussed and her long, dark hair plastered to her cheeks, that he couldn’t resist leaning in and nibbling her neck. Her skin was salty from sweat, the scent of her sopping cunt so heavy he could almost taste it.

She blinked fast, and the tears in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. She’d already cried; her eye makeup had left black tracks on her face. It made her even prettier, and he kissed her tears too. The wall behind her scratched at his palms as he braced himself, and the contrast with her skin made both stand out all the more. Pleasure, softness; roughness, pain.

But her lips twisted on his, and she leaned back, the manacles rattling. “I’m not fucking saying it.”

He pulled her thighs further apart, pressing himself between them as he went back to nuzzling her neck, occasionally biting down until felt her skin start to break, then soothing the place with his tongue. The rod’s vibrating seemed to burn his cock, a little too intense; he could only imagine how much it must have agonized her.

The thought of her, helpless and in pain because he wanted her to be, made his pulse thrum through his fingers, and he pressed himself against her hard, grinding into her. Her dress slid down further, and then her small, firm breasts were in his hands, her nipples rolling against his palms. Perfectly formed for him to enjoy and for her to suffer, all of her, from head to heel.

When he touched her it was hard to stop, and she didn’t say the phrase then, either. He hadn’t thought she would.

* * *

Nazeem, that worthless fuck, had started the entire thing. The three of them had been having a perfectly civilised after-dinner drink at the trade meeting in Dragonsreach earlier that evening, Nazeem blathering about whatever bullshit a Whiterun farmer considered notable.

Sibbi hadn’t cared. He’d brought Asleigr expressly to handle such tedium on his behalf. Mother had told him she expected Sibbi to take a more active role in the family business, but she hadn’t told him not to delegate that role to his inferiors.

Sibbi instead entertained himself by watching Balgruuf’s children running among the carved pillars, playful as fox pups. He even smiled when the girl glanced over. She smiled back, ducking her head. He’d been imagining one of the massive shields that lined the walls sliding from its place and cutting her younger brother precisely in two through the midsection.

But Nazeem and Asleigr’s talk eventually turned to clothes, and Sibbi drew his attention back to them. Not because he wanted their opinions on the matter, but he’d just had a jacket made at Radiant Raiment in Solitude, and he was dying to show it off.

Under his handsome new clothes Sibbi wore a silk tunic, a cloth brigandine, linen smallclothes, a quill-knife, a filleting knife, and a boning knife. He’d had to leave his cleaver in the guestroom he shared with Asleigr because it was unseemly to carry a blade in the Jarl’s presence, and both Balgruuf and Igmund had come. He’d also brought a length of rope, just in case.

“Like it?” He turned his wrist so that Nazeem could admire the delicate embroidery at the sleeves, the perfectly arranged quilting, the electrum clasps. “Bespoke, of course.”

“It’s lovely,” Nazeem said. But he did not speak enthusiastically, and he leaned in far too close to examine the sewing, barely touching the sleeve as inspected it. “Solitude, I take it?” Before Sibbi could reply affirmatively, Nazeem—the unpardonably rude ass—continued, “And what do you think of my jacket?”

He took a step back, rotating, arms outstretched. For the first time that night, Sibbi noticed it. The jacket was so tasteful, so understated that it had been easy to miss, yet now he could see how careful and flawless the tailoring truly was. The crisp, even hems could have served as levels on a house, and the buckles were pearl. It clung to Nazeem’s chest so perfectly that Sibbi marveled at what farm life could do for a man’s figure.

“Arsène Vasseur?” Sibbi found it hard to speak; the words stuck in his throat like a fishbone. He nearly coughed them out. “I heard he only makes eight a year.”

“Six, now.” Nazeem’s voice was not unkind, and that somehow made it so much worse. Sibbi needed no man’s pity, especially not some fucking cabbage seller’s. “I had to wait seven years for this! Worth it, though, wouldn’t you say?”

Sibbi had been on Arsène Vasseur’s waitlist for eight years. He looked at Nazeem anew, seeing signs of hostility in the man that he had missed: the jutting chin, the constant smirking curve of his lips, the jaunty wide-stanced way he stood. And he had skipped the line in front of Sibbi. For all these crimes he deserved death.

Asleigr, ever the traitor, touched Nazeem’s arm. In the dim lamplight, her eyes shone. “Worth every minute!”

Ass-kisser. Brown-nosing bitch. Traitorous wench. Sibbi had brought her to the meeting to look good by _his_ side, to flatter _him_ , to make everyone think _he_ was a big man, to—

At that moment, from behind Sibbi someone said, “I see you’ve snuck off to monopolise all the beautiful women as usual, Nazeem.”

Sibbi turned, ready to verbally and possibly physically rip into the man, and found himself face to face with Olfrid Battle-Born. Olfrid was sneering, his goblet halfway to his mouth, but when they made eye-contact he paled and fully recoiled. “And… Sibbi Black-Briar. Fancy that.”

“Olfrid.” The name was the most Sibbi could manage at the moment. He felt light-headed. “We were just admiring Nazeem’s Arsène Vasseur jacket.”

As soon as he said it he saw, with growing horror, that Olfrid, too, wore an Arsène Vasseur jacket. Its quilting was exquisite, the clasps a subtle silver clamshell design, the belt calfskin with a buckle of, again, silver. His lightheadedness intensified until Sibbi thought that his body might float off the floor and be lost in the rafters, whereupon he would be sick on the entire assembly.

“Nazeem said he was down to making six a year,” Asleigr said.

Olfrid took a mouthful of wine and grinned at her like she’d said something wonderfully clever, which would have been a first. “He’s semi-retired, so it’s three a year.” _Three,_ Sibbi thought, wretched, imagining himself barring the doors and burning the entirety of Dragonsreach to the ground. “Took me over four years to get through the waiting list.”

An immense weight of despair seemed to settle on Sibbi’s shoulders. He stood there, rooted to the spot, immobilized. There was a darkness in his eyes that had nothing at all to do with the shit lighting. He felt as if he were crouching on the edge of a vast black ocean unlit by any moons or stars.

“I’ve been on the list for eight!” he heard himself say, as if he were watching another Sibbi squeaking on that far shore. Very tiny, and very distant.

Olfrid kept smiling at Asleigr, who ducked her head as if to hide a blush. She wasn’t blushing. “Money always… slicks things up, I say.”

A steak knife had appeared, somehow, in Sibbi’s hand, and his fingers twitched against the handle as if of their own accord, beyond any conscious control. He imagined driving the blade through Olfrid’s skull, wrenching his arm up, cracking the cranium open like a boiled egg.

Olfrid must have noticed his consternation. “Want me to send the old man a letter, boy? I’m sure we could move things along for you. Eight years is too damn long.”

The vicious impulse intensified. Sibbi had to use his other hand to pry his fingers loose from the knife’s handle, and when he did it clattered to the floor and rang against the polished wood.

All three of them stared for a moment that seemed to continue for months and years and decades. Nazeem studied the steak knife, his brow furrowed, and Olfrid studied Sibbi. He’d lifted his goblet between them as if he could fend Sibbi off with it.

Then Asleigr, proving she wasn’t totally useless, waved them closer as if she were about to impart a great secret.

“Is Erikur here?” Asleigr leaned forwards, and the three of them followed suit, crowding in head-to-head. From his angle Sibbi could see down her dress to her golden skin, the merest hint of pert brown nipples, but even that couldn’t make him feel better. “I heard that he got his made in _two_ years.”

Nipples were forgotten. Sibbi reared back as if he’d been mortally struck. “Erikur’s a fucking liar! There’s no way!”

He realised, too late, that he had screamed this: his throat hurt and the words seemed to hang in the air. The hall, he’d noticed, had gone dead silent. He was afraid to look around, but he could feel people staring in his direction, gazes prickling like insects all over him.

Asleigr grit her teeth and snuck a darting look at Nazeem and Olfrid. They were eyeing one another with eloquent expressions, a silent conversation passing between them that seemed pretty unflattering to Sibbi. Probably about how he alone didn’t have an Arsène Vasseur jacket.

Then they both looked at something on his right, their expressions shifting to relief (Olfrid) and concern (Nazeem). Sibbi turned, panting, sweat beading his forehead and streaming under his arms, and saw Erikur bearing down on them, his steps lively, his face pulled into a horrible, joyous, mocking grin.

“My ears are burning,” he said when he was close enough to speak. “Did I hear you say my name, Sibbi?”

Then, as if this weren’t bad enough, as if his goddamned smirk and good humour and two-year wait—which had to be a lie, it fucking _had_ to, he would skin Erikur alive and make _him_ into a jacket otherwise—weren’t bad enough, he slid his arms around Asleigr’s waist and pulled her into a big bear hug. She enthusiastically returned it.

“So good to see you, Sister. You could shame the sun from the sky with that beauty.” Erikur’s smile had changed, become something secretive and knowing. This time, she did blush, and that was worst of all.

“We were talking about your Arsène Vasseur jacket,” Asleigr said before Sibbi could tell him to get fucked with a mammoth tusk. “Did you really get it made in two years?”

Erikur had kept an arm around her waist, and Sibbi imagined sawing it off with one of his secret knives, then smashing it against Erikur’s head. Which would shatter first, his mutton-like arm or his dense skull? Sibbi wondered. There was a high risk that he was going to find out within the next ten minutes.

“Oh, heard that, did you?” Finally, _finally_ Erikur released Asleigr, addressing Nazeem and Olfrid as well. “Well, you know how I hate to be gauche, gentlemen, but… yes, it’s true. I got it in two years.”

“How?” Sibbi’s voice was tiny, miserable. The voice of a dejected pupil who had watched the other lads receiving candied apples and plums while he was given extra math problems to solve.

Erikur gave him a playful punch on the arm that Sibbi was certain counted as sufficient legal grounds for murder. “Friends in high places, my lad, friends in high places. That, and I know how to speak a language men appreciate.”

“Coin,” Olfrid and Nazeem said at once, but Sibbi said, “Torture.” Fortunately nobody seemed to hear.

And then, the crowning cap on this awful night that was shaping up to be the worst of Sibbi’s life—worse even than the night Mother had said she didn’t sympathize with him killing his ex-fiance’s brother and that he had to go to jail to ‘cool off’—Erikur stepped back. He moved with the grace and aplomb of a Jarl. It seemed as if the lights had suddenly dimmed as one, plunging the hall into a darkness lit only by Erikur’s outfit.

“Feast your eyes, ladies and gentlemen.” Erikur spread his arms as if he were welcoming all of Skyrim into his warm and well-tailored embrace. “Arsène Vasseur. Took five fittings. _Five_. He came to Solitude just to dress me. Stayed there for a month.” He looked Sibbi dead in the eyes and said, “Real nice, funny guy. Great taste in wine. We shared a bottle of Laronc brandy I’d been saving for a special occasion. I feel like I made a lifelong friend.”

Sibbi made a completely inhuman noise, but nobody noticed that, either. They were too busy staring at Erikur’s jacket.

It was, without question, the most beautiful jacket Sibbi had ever seen. The quilting consisted of perfect lozenges, the buttons unmistakably Reach silver, the cashmere dyed a blue so rich it looked like actual, honest-to-gods indigo. It had to be admitted that Erikur was in acceptable shape, but the jacket did things to his shoulders and chest that violated some decency law somewhere, so firm and manly and frankly enticing did they appear.

Someone who wore such a jacket could only be a prince among men. He would find no peer in the mortal realms.

“Superlative.” Nazeem’s voice was a whisper.

“Magnificent,” Olfrid said.

It was magnificent, Sibbi thought. He felt teary-eyed, disconsolate. He had to get out of there right that minute or else he was going to weep like a child.

And then, with a withering cruelty that was even more cutting because it was so casual and off-handed: “Erikur,” Asleigr said, “you look so very handsome.” Her dark eyes were soft, longing. Longing, _his_ priestess, over that wretched beastly fuck. “I _love_ a man with good taste. It’s so rare nowadays.”

The others were saying something, but Sibbi could not hear it. His ears filled with a roaring noise like the crash of the sea, or like wind through narrow mountain passages. The winds of Sovngarde, probably, because he was assuredly dying, as was everyone else in this room if he didn’t escape fucking immediately.

He stared at Asleigr, whose smile faded little by little. He had no idea if anyone else was paying attention to them. It no longer mattered. Asleigr had drawn her blade and sunk it into his heart, right up to the hilt.

Sibbi always struck the final blow. Always.

“We’re leaving,” Sibbi had said to her. “Now.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you said Erikur has good taste,” Sibbi said now. Asleigr sagged, and her chains tinkled and rang like expensive bracelets. “Erikur has the taste of a fucking worm who eats dirt all day.”

She was panting, her eyes so dark and so glazed he wondered if she even understood what he’d said. She’d retreated into someplace beyond him, the space of debasement and ecstatic brokenness that seemed to swallow her up when they were together like this: her retreat from the most intense degradation and pain. A little pocket of herself that she shared with no one. No one, he thought, but him.

He’d never loved much of anyone, but he came the closest to loving her when she relinquished herself that way.

He ran his hands over her shoulders, trying to take her in with all his senses, absorbing the full woman in her fully shattered state, hands and tongue and teeth on her. Her skin was soft as sable, even tacky with sweat. He always liked the feeling of her hands on him, her cool, delicate, careful fingers. But he liked the bloody purple bruises restraints left on her wrists even more.

“I’ll stop any time you want.” He made his tone as kind as he could, though kindness was always a bit out of reach for Sibbi. “All you have to say is, ‘You have great taste.’ I promise.”

Her lips and her eyelashes trembled. “I—“ The word seemed to strangle her, and she gasped, a sound that made him tense with sudden, bloody-edged want. “I don’t—Sibbi, I can’t even…” Her words came out slowly, slurred as if she were drunk, as if she couldn’t shape her tongue around the syllables.

He kept petting her, dragging his fingers across her collarbones to glide over the hollow of her throat, teasing the dip there, not sure if he wanted to kiss it or watch blood well in it.

“You’re so delicate,” he said. Reasonably sure she could not hear him, but speaking to himself as much as her. “Surprisingly tough, though. Weak in some ways, strong in others, right?”

With one of his nails he found a path over the curve of her breast, close to her heart. He wished he’d thought to keep his nails longer, to raise welts on her skin. He might still leave fingerprints on her, mark her with something uniquely his. The sign of the way he’d laid his hands on her and used her and made her scream. Like pressing a seal into wax.

She was giving as wax, too. He bore down on a tendon in her neck until it strained against his thumb and she coughed and jerked. Then, at last, he leaned forwards to kiss her, almost tender, because her weakness made her lovable as well. Her skin was hot as if she’d lain all day in the sun, and she was weak and his, and no one could hurt her as sweetly as he did. No one.

The rod was getting to be too much for him, so he pulled it from the rope around her leg and tossed it aside. Asleigr actually cried out, and the muscles in her face twisted before smoothing into visible relief.

She took a long breath, like a woman who’d been submerged and was breaking the surface at last. A false release, Sibbi thought. He was going to drag her back again. She was going to drown down here with him, choking and gasping and desperate and hungry. His lust, her trapped terror.

“Oh, no.” He spoke against her mouth, and his teeth touched her teeth, her lips. She tasted like the sea from her sweat and tears. “There’s no mercy in the world, Sister. We’re just switching back to manual methods.”

She was so wet that he thrust three fingers inside her without warning and without resistance. It must still have been less unpleasant than the rod, because she winced but did not make any sound. Even when he slid a fourth finger into her, she took it in silence.

Her resistance, unexpected after she’d seemed so broken moments before, annoyed him. It made him want to grab her by the hips and fuck her until she couldn’t speak. He’d wanted to hear her beg again, to make her call out to him with that knee-weakening tremble in her voice, part longing and part fear.

With one hand he pushed her back against the wall and with the other he shoved his fingers into her deep as they’d go, a brutal, punishing motion. Her cunt gripped him, and she gasped at last then. He twisted his hand sharply, drinking in the shadow of genuine pain that crossed her face.

He thought about pushing his fingers still further, but he was hard and throbbing now, wet against his smalls, balls aching. And he wanted to fuck her properly again, watch her strain on top of him. A reminder that even without some stupid jacket he owned Asleigr, at least, completely.

Listening to her breathing, the wet slick sound of her cunt where it clung to his fingers, her breasts heaving against him as she sucked down the air, it occurred to him suddenly that the world was a deeply arbitrary place.

There were people, he thought, stepping away from her to unlace his cock from his pants—there were people who, tonight, would go to sleep in the cold damp streets, their bellies empty, unloved and unthought-of. While he, Sibbi Black-Briar, through no real virtue or effort of his own, was here, warm and safe. And he had spent the evening listening to a beautiful priestess scream as he subjected her to all manner of erotic agony.

Life was good, jacket notwithstanding. And the jacket, too, would come. The world was his to take and handle and misuse.

He fingered her cunt with one hand, stroking himself with the other, enjoying the way her eyes widened a little when she glanced at his cock. Still alert enough for fear, and her fear made him almost tremble, hot tingles moving over his skin. He had to restrain himself from sinking into her and grinding her against the wall until it bloodied her back.

She was soaked and must have been tender from the rough working-over he’d given her, because the lips of her cunt and her clit were puffy. His lightest touch would have hurt, and his touches were never light. The thought brought him another hot pulse of pleasure, and his cock jumped in his fist.

The light and life had come back into Asleigr’s eyes when he looked down at her. He wondered what it was she saw in him that made her shrink back.

“Not laughing at me now, are you?” Still with his fingers inside her, enjoying the sight of her spread and wet and open, he pressed the head of his cock against her slit. The sensation was intense, and heat seemed to radiate through him, spreading down his thighs in blazing waves from where he rubbed against her.

She whimpered, but that was it. It wasn’t until he pressed into her without withdrawing his hand that she looked at him, her eyes going wide again.

“That’s right,” he said. “Now you get it.”

She was so slippery, her muscles so loose, that despite her slim frame he slid in with little resistance. But it was a tight fit, and not entirely easy trying to move against his own hand and her at once. The added friction made him grunt, though. An unfamiliar sensation. He didn’t get many of those.

Asleigr’s thighs quivered, and she stared at the wall over his shoulder. Her lips had parted a little, and he could feel her struggling without moving, her cunt spasming around him, trying to accommodate him.

He thrust into her again, a slow motion, getting used to working around his fingers. Asleigr said nothing, but the tension with which she gripped his cock told him that he was stretching her. He picked up his pace, enjoying how she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her brow, the little signs of discomfort. The motion jostled her in her chains, and between them her dress was scarcely more than tattered fabric now. She’d have to sneak back to their rooms half-naked. The thought made him groan.

He gripped her hips with his other hand. Her skin was firm, and it felt good to hold her in place with easy strength while he slammed inside her. The noises of their fucking were loud in the cell, and he was glad that he’d bribed the Guard-Captain for its use, glad that no one was coming to interrupt them, glad that the entire world was him and Asleigr and him driving into her like he hated her.

Although he’d come earlier that evening, he felt himself approaching his orgasm hard, with all the inevitable force of falling over an abyss. The pleasure of the contact, her small tits bouncing, the knowledge of how the rough stone must have rasped her back, the knowledge that only he ever did this with her, it made his cock ache and his face burn.

He kept up the pace even as neared the edge, taking in her choked sobs and the restraints rattling and the filthy, wet sounds of her being fucked. When he finally came the pleasure fell on him like a titanic obliterating wave, and his heart seemed to stutter, and his toes might actually have curled.

When it was over, he stilled, pulled out, and withdrew his fingers from inside her. She sighed. Relief.

He didn’t bother suppressing his smirk. “Wonderful work.”

Her head lolled against her shoulder. “Done?”

“Not by half.” He reached between them and, before she could react, pinched her clit hard.

She screamed, struggling to jerk away. His fingers slipped in her wetness and his come, but he grabbed her hips and found the spot again, this time using his nails like pincers, squeezing as she fought.

“Sibbi.” There were tears in her voice. “You have great taste. _Please_.”

He released her, sullen and unwilling. Her face had twisted with a pain rising into real agony, and that always woke something up in him—something he wasn’t sure he could or wanted to control.

But Asleigr was a good girl. She’d done well. He was as pleased with her as he’d have been with a clever new servant who learned Sibbi’s routine with no reminders.

He could replace her like a servant, too, as simply and with as little thought. But he didn’t want to. He liked Asleigr. He meant to keep her for a while longer yet.

Her chains rang as he undid them, releasing her first at the legs and then the wrists, lifting her down. She was a small woman, lightly built, and she slumped against him. Easy and grateful. As if he hadn’t spent the entire evening fucking and degrading and hurting her.

“Tired?” Her slack-limbed languor amused him. He felt better now, great even, fucked out and relaxed. He kept his arms around her and carried them both to the floor, holding her against him, conscious of the way she put all her weight on him. “You did well. I’m surprised and impressed.”

She pressed against his chest, soft and pliant like she had no strength left to hold herself together. Perhaps she didn’t. The colour was coming back into her cheeks, her grey-green pallor fading so she looked less like a haunted shadow of herself. Less, he thought with a grin, like a desiccated husk that he’d drained lifeless.

Her breathing had just slowed when she looked up at him, smiling weakly like she’d survived a long illness. “Just so you know,” she whispered in her hoarse, broken voice, “those jackets are overpriced and tacky.”

“Oh, piss off.” A bit of coaxing was not undesirable, but obvious lies insulted him. “They are not.”

“Yes.” She shifted a little so that her forehead pressed his shoulder. Her breath was warm even through his remaining clothing. He’d let her wear his own discarded jacket as they headed back to his rooms, he thought, as a peace-offering, a sign that they were once more friends. “Did you see Jarl Igmund wearing one? Or Balgruuf? I didn’t.”

Sibbi started to answer, then paused. Tonight, to be sure, they had not. And he’d crossed paths with both men at a few earlier events—usually while being chaperoned by Hemming because Mother didn’t trust him around Jarls. Try as he might, he could not recall ever seeing either don Arsène Vasseur.

Asleigr peered up at him. There was a spark of humour in the depths of her eyes. “Thongvor Silver-Blood? Or... Jarl Siddgeir?”

“Do not fucking _start_ about Siddgeir, alright?” But he had no heat in the words. She was right. As he considered it, Arsène Vasseur seemed to be the domain of the new rich like Nazeem, or pretentious fops like Erikur who had something to prove, or Olfrid who needed to shore up his withered physique with rich fabrics.

Sad, really. He felt very sad for those other men, the tragedies of their lives. They did not love themselves.

“So you don’t, really, need a jacket at all.” Asleigr rubbed her face against his chest like a cat, and like a cat he touched her chin. “You have nothing to prove.”

“That’s true.” Sibbi was a mother-fucking Black-Briar, a name that made people tremble, a name even Jarls went in fear of. He was young and handsome and rich and he had all his hair and teeth and women fought over him. And his physique was perfect. “If I did, I proved it to you, didn’t I?”

“You did.” She squeezed him around the midsection. “Can we get some food? I’m starving.”

Even in defeat, he reflected as he kissed her now tangled, filthy hair and helped her stand, life offered its consolations. There’d be other chances for nice clothes, other chances to impress his peers.

He thought of the knives he’d set aside before he began work on Asleigr. They lay, glittering with a purity almost like innocence, on the floor.

There’d be other chances, too, to make his point.

**Author's Note:**

> Doffing my fedora to Mary Harron's _American Psycho_ take, which I revisited this Christmas and loved as much as ever.
> 
> I (mostly) unironically enjoy Nazeem, and he doesn’t deserve to be grouped in with these fucks, but how could I resist? There’s a party in the Cloud District, where else would he be?
> 
> Smash that kudos button to put Sibbi on a ten-year waitlist for whoever makes Jarls’ clothes.


End file.
